Two Sugars, No Pain
by TJ-TeeJay
Summary: Alex, Fowler, Kate, the music box and a secret code. Things come to a head and Mozzie ends up in the crosshairs. My take on the sequel to episode 2x09 'Point Blank'. PG-13, Gen.
1. Part 1 of 3

**Two Sugars, No Pain**

_by TeeJay_

* * *

**Summary:** Alex, Fowler, Kate, the music box and a secret code. Things come to a head and Mozzie ends up in the crosshairs. My take on the sequel to episode 2x09 'Point Blank'. PG-13, Gen.

**Rating: **PG-13 for language

**Genre:** Gen

**Characters/Pairings:** Neal, Mozzie, Peter/Elizabeth

**Warning: **Spoilers for anything up to and including 2x09 "Point Blank"

**Author's Note:** This story picks up where episode 2x09 (Point Blank) left off, assuming that Mozzie actually did get shot and wounded. Since I'm a spoilerphobe, I've stayed away from promos and other spoilers as best as I could, but I have more than a strong suspicion that my story isn't in line with what's to come in episodes 2x10 and onwards. For the sake of storytelling, though, let's just assume this is how things might go, okay?

I like angsty stuff, so beware. I'm going to go all kinds of McPunisher on Neal (but hopefully still keep it true to the show).

Just in case you don't remember, the beginning of the very first scene of this fanfic is from episode "Point Blank".

One last thing about something some of the White Collar fan fiction writers have discussed over on LiveJournal. Apparently, some people are unhappy about how most post 'Point Blank' stories peg Neal as the bad guy, and how Peter needs to punish him for it (by making him push paper for weeks, by putting him under house arrest, you name it). There's been protests about how Peter doesn't even consider Neal's side, and that maybe what Neal did was justified enough for Peter not to punish Neal for it. Or that, while wrong and illegal, Peter should at least understand why Neal did it, and cut him some slack. Well, I must admit that I'm more on Peter's than Neal's side here. That's reflected in my story, and I stand by it, though of course I also understand what drove Neal to act the way he did. I just don't see how Peter, being an FBI agent and having a strong moral sense of what's right and what's wrong, could condone what Neal did. And since Peter has a certain control over Neal's life, does Neal really have many options?

Thank you once again to the wonderful rabidchild67 for beta-reading.

**Disclaimer: **White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.

* * *

"You wanna explain the guns?" There was an almost amused sparkle underneath the surprise in Neal's eyes.

Peter and Diana were now holstering their weapons after bursting unannounced into Neal's apartment. Diana looked at Neal who was stepping closer. "Someone killed Akiro Tanaka."

Peter stepped in. "We thought they were headed here next."

"Why?" Neal asked.

"Surveillance tape at the antique shop was paused on your image."

Neal's eyes went dark with sudden foreboding, his forehead creased in a frown. "I wasn't there alone."

Peter at first didn't understand. When he did, his eyes widened. "Mozzie?"

"Yeah," Neal said, his voice almost a whisper. His hand was already in his pocket to find his phone. Three rings—four. Nothing. "Come on, Moz, pick up!" he hissed. He hung up and looked at Peter. "Voice mail."

"How do we find him?" Peter asked, anxiously looking at Neal's apartment door. He was antsy to get going, knowing that Neal's friend was in danger.

"Can you track his phone?"

"We can try," Peter said.

Neal was fully aware that the last thing Mozzie would want was for Neal to give the Feds his phone number, but this was also an emergency.

* * *

"Neal, can you stop pacing, please?" Peter chastised, sitting at his office desk with the phone to his ear, having been put on hold.

Things had been happening so fast, he'd barely had time to think about the bigger picture. For all intents and purposes, Neal should not be walking around a free man—or as free a man as he could be with an anklet that would keep him within his predetermined 2-mile radius.

He had stolen a gun—and used it. As if that wasn't enough, he'd used it on Fowler. Thankfully, he'd not fired it at Fowler directly, otherwise there would be no doubt as to whether Neal belonged back in prison.

Peter's eyes followed Neal as he was wearing out the carpet in front of his desk. Beneath the carefully constructed mask, when subjected to closer scrutiny, he read the anxiety and worry. Neal would be more of a liability if cut loose without supervision right now, so what choice did he have than to keep him close, where he could keep an eye on him?

However, in Peter's mind, there was no question that he and Neal would have to have an honest talk about what happened today, and there would also have to be consequences. But there was a time and place for that, and it wasn't now.

Peter's attention was drawn back to his telephone conversation. He listened intently for a moment, then muttered a thank you before he hung up.

"Argch," he exclaimed loudly so that Neal could hear, his face contorting in frustration. "Damn the man. He's just too good."

Normally, Neal would have smiled a knowingly smug smile and inwardly commended his friend. Now a worried frown was etched into his features.

He didn't have to ask before Peter went on, "It figures. His phone can't be tracked. We tried everything."

"Peter, we need to find him." The urgency in Neal's voice was becoming more and more pronounced with every passing minute.

"Yeah, I know. You're his friend, you know his hideouts. Shouldn't we start looking there?"

"Let's go."

In the car, Neal tried calling Mozzie's phone again. His heart skipped a beat when someone picked up, but the voice wasn't familiar. "Hello?"

"Who is this?" Neal asked.

"My name is Melissa Calahan, I'm a nurse at Lenox Hill Hospital. Who am I speaking to?"

It didn't take Neal long to find out what had happened, or at least an abbreviated version of it. Mozzie had been admitted to the hospital with a gunshot wound to the chest. Peter was already turning the Taurus around, unmindful of any speed limits.

* * *

Hospital waiting rooms were a place of desperation. It was as if the stale afterthought of all the good and bad news that had been delivered in them continually lingered in the air. It was quiet despite the handful of people occupying the uninviting, sterile confines, the oppression of anxiety shushing all voices.

This was where they had directed Peter and Neal after their arrival at the hospital. Mozzie's life was hanging by a thread. They were now performing emergency surgery.

Neal had paced the room for a while. Now he was sitting on one of the light blue, comfortless plastic chairs. Peter eyed him carefully from where he was sitting. The young man had withdrawn from the world around him, his face a blank mask, but Peter was all too aware of the turmoil that was raging underneath. The uncertainty was the worst. He knew, because he still remembered.

Different time, different hospital, but they had rushed Elizabeth to the emergency room one night, years ago, when she had collapsed after a bad bout of belly cramps. It had turned out to be a cyst in her uterus that they had to operate on. Those had been difficult times for the couple, with the uncertainty still hanging in the air of whether they would ever be able to conceive children.

Elizabeth. He hadn't even told her about Mozzie yet. He took his phone out of his jacket and got up, saying to Neal, "I'll be right back."

Neal barely acknowledged him.

* * *

No! No, this couldn't be. This wasn't fair.

Neal gripped the handrail beneath the ICU window that looked into the room they had taken Mozzie to after the surgery. His knuckles were white, his face wearing a desperate expression. Mozzie was his friend. His best friend. And now he was lying in this bed, barely more than a shell of himself, fighting the battle for his life.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, the thought scraped at his consciousness that this was his fault. Like an overturned can of crimson paint, it spread quickly. If he hadn't gotten Mozzie involved in the hunt for Kate's killer... If he hadn't asked him to decipher the recording of the music box's encoded tune... If he'd just stayed away from Fowler... There were so many ifs.

A few feet away, keeping his distance, Peter stood and watched his friend. _Friends_—plural. Even though Mozzie was such a strange, paranoid guy, he had slowly become more than just an acquaintance. He quietly stepped closer and stood next to Neal.

The faint but regular beeps of the medical equipment in the adjacent rooms mingled with the heavy silence that hung in the air for half a minute. Irrefutable reminders of life's ephemerality. Peter reached out to put a comforting hand on Neal's shoulder. For a second, he could feel the young man succumb, his shoulders sagging. Then the walls came up.

"Neal," Peter said in a soft voice. The silent tears on the young man's cheeks were telltale signs of a vulnerability not many people were allowed to see. It drove home what Peter realized must be gnawing at Neal's insides. "You know you can't blame yourself for this."

He let out a hollow laugh. "Can't I?"

Couldn't he? Peter wasn't sure. This was such a mess, but right here, right now was not the place or time to discuss it. "Mozzie's a tough guy. He'll make it."

"Yeah," Neal said just above a whisper, his voice devoid of conviction.

They stood in silence until Peter gently took Neal's upper arm to guide him outside. "Come on, we should leave."

"No."

"There is nothing you can do for him right now. The hospital has our telephone numbers. They'll call if there's any news. You see that guy over there?" Peter pointed at a man in a black suit sitting in a chair at the nurse's station, well within sight of Mozzie's room.

Neal nodded.

"That's Agent Lang. We'll have someone stationed here at all times. Mozzie is safe."

Neal looked through the window for a long moment, then relented. "Can you take me home?"

* * *

The drive was heavy with unspoken words and accusations. Both of them were still trying to figure out what the hell had happened, how it could have come to this.

Peter took a right at the next block. Neal's eyes seemed glued to the side window, but Peter knew he wasn't registering what was going on outside of it.

When they stopped and Peter turned off the car, Neal suddenly realized where they were. "This isn't my home."

"No, it's not," Peter just said.

"Peter," Neal said in a resigned tone. "I just wanna go home, okay?"

"I don't think that'd be a very good idea."

"Oh no? And why not?" he raised his voice. "Are you afraid I'm gonna cut my anklet and run? Tell me, where do I have left to go? My girlfriend's dead, my best friend's as good as—"

"No!" Peter interjected sharply. "You don't get to yell at me. If anyone should be yelling, it'd be me. You're in a world of trouble, so consider this a kind of peace offering."

Neal stayed quiet and just turned his head away. Peter sighed a heavy sigh. This would be awkward. He got out of the car, Neal following him at a safe distance.

Walking up the front stairs, Peter got out the keys and opened the door for Neal to step in. Elizabeth was waiting in the living room, stepping closer at the two of them entering, unsure what to do.

Peter walked over to her and she drew him into a hug. "How is Mozzie?" she asked.

"They say the surgery went well, but he's still in critical condition."

"Oh, honey," she sighed, the concern clearly audible in her voice. Her eyes carefully searched the room for Neal, who had walked over to the window behind the couch that overlooked the street, his back now turned towards the two of them.

Her husband's gentle grip on her upper arm stopped her from walking over to him.

She looked at Peter questioningly, who silently shook his head. She understood. It meant, 'Give him some space.'

As more of a distraction than anything, she went to the coffee machine in the kitchen and started to put on a pot. When she felt Peter's arms closing around her from behind, she leaned back against his warm chest. "And how is Neal?"

"In shock. Angry. Confused."

Her brow creased in worry. "What can I do?"

There was a brief silence—then an unsure, "I don't know, El. You're the expert on this kind of thing."

Neal was such a hard person to read, and she hated that. Her motherly instinct just wanted to envelop him in a hug and tell him that everything was going to be fine. But would it be? She sensed there was something else going on here that eluded her for the moment, so she opted for caution.

Sitting down at the small counter that they had equipped with two barstools, she watched the coffee maker spring to life. "So what exactly is Neal's involvement in all this? He looks like he's beating himself up over something, like it should be him in that hospital bed."

Peter was silent for a long moment, which prompted her to look him in the eyes. "You don't think he should, do you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, I'm still not sure what the hell happened. One moment I'm investigating home burglaries, the next I find myself sitting opposite Fowler in my office, actually feeling sorry for the guy."

"Fowler? How does he fit into all of this?"

Peter sighed. This was going to be a long story. He described the events of the day to El's utter shock and amazement, finishing with how Mozzie had been found with a bullet wound to the chest in Central Park.

"So why Mozzie?" Elizabeth wondered.

"He figured it out. He figured out the music box code."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Then isn't he—?"

"Still in danger? Yeah, we have agents at the hospital round the clock."

She put her chin on her propped up elbow. "And Neal blames himself for getting Mozzie involved." It wasn't a question.

"Wouldn't you?"

"I don't know. Probably." She fingered one of the napkins on the counter. "It's just not fair, you know? He's already lost the woman he loved." She looked at her husband, studied the expression on his face. "You're worried about him too, aren't you?"

Peter drew in a breath and held it for a second. "If Mozzie dies... I don't know if he's gonna come back from that. He'd have nothing to lose, nothing to stop him. He'd cut and run."

"_You_ could stop him."

"I'm not so sure."

It was then that the coffee machine's sputtering indicated that the brewing process had finished. Elizabeth got up and poured a mug, walking with it into the living room. Neal was still standing in the same spot, his stare blank, his mind miles away.

She sidled up to him, holding the coffee mug out to him. "I know it's not Italian roast..." she said with a sad smile.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"You okay?"

What a stupid question. Of course he wasn't okay.

His gaze on her was surprisingly sober. "Yeah, I'm fine."

'Liar,' she thought. But it was his game. His little dance, his invisible shield that only few people could penetrate. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No," he said, maybe a little too fast. "No. This," he lifted the mug, "is just fine."

They both knew it wasn't what she had meant, but she understood that he didn't want to talk. "Just find me if you need anything, okay?"

"Yeah," he just said.

Her eyes brimmed with worry as she walked away. But with Neal, they needed to wait for him to come to them.

* * *

The Burke home had been quiet. Too quiet. Peter sat at the dining table, his finger absent-mindedly drumming on the wooden surface. Elizabeth was preparing dinner in the kitchen. Neal had quietly asked whether he could take Satchmo for a walk. Peter hadn't liked the idea, but Elizabeth's pleading but firm look had made him let go of the veto he'd had on his lips.

A storm was brewing inside him, and Peter wasn't sure when it would hit. The more he thought about it, the more uneasy it made him. After today's events, he couldn't just pat Neal on the back and send him on his merry way. Mozzie or no Mozzie, the fact that Neal had yet again truncated their ribbon of carefully established trust was undeniable. The bitter aftertaste it left in Peter's mouth couldn't be washed down that easily.

Peter knew the time would come soon where Neal would ask him to look into who had shot Moz. He also knew he wasn't ready to tell him about Julian Larssen. Mozzie's plight only fueled his desire for vengeance, and giving Neal another target would only pave the way to the kind of disaster he had tried and almost failed to avert earlier today.

Peter put his head in his hands on his propped up elbows. He was still sitting that way when Elizabeth joined him from the kitchen. She stood behind him, resting her hands softly on his shoulders. Rubbing them a few times, she kissed him on the top of his head before she sat down opposite him.

"Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes."

He grunted approval.

She knew him way too well, his mind was far away from the idea of taking pleasure in ingesting food. "Penny for your thoughts," she carefully prodded.

He breathed out a heavy sigh. "This is such a mess. I really don't know what's going to happen."

"With Neal?"

"Yeah. He stole a gun, and he was _this_ close to shooting Fowler with it. He had Alex steal the music box to—I don't know—get some sort of target off her back. Either of those is grounds enough to put him back in prison."

"Do you _want_ to put him back in prison?"

He sighed again. "I honestly don't know. Tell me, how can I let him get away with it? But what really gets me is the fact that he keeps doing it, without even a second thought. I mean, dammit, El, doesn't any of this mean anything to him? Is it so easy for him to throw all this away in the blink of an eye?"

"You think he betrayed you."

"No, I _know_ he betrayed me. He used me to get what he wanted. How can I—"

It was then that the door to the living room opened and Satchmo waddled in, followed by Neal. Peter was just getting started, and now was as good a time as any to get it out in the open. He stood up from his chair, turning towards Neal.

Elizabeth was by Peter's side in two quick steps. She took him by the arm, holding him back, telling him, "Not now."

He glowered at her, but didn't make another move in Neal's direction.

Neal stopped by the couch, the awkwardness of the moment not lost on him. "Not now what?"

Peter took a step back. "Let me check the casserole," he mumbled and vanished into the kitchen.

Neal looked at Elizabeth questioningly. "What was that all about?"

"You would do well not to ask that question."

"Is he mad at me?"

"Neal," she said with a half-sigh. "You stole the music box. You stole a gun and held Fowler at gunpoint, and then left Peter to clean up the mess. What do you think?"

"I guess I had it coming."

"Yeah, you did," she said with more harshness to her voice than she intended.

"How much trouble am I in?"

"I wish I could say. He hasn't arrested you yet, if that's any indication." She met his steel-blue eyes. "Just promise me one thing."

He hesitated a moment, then nodded.

"Don't do anything to make this worse. My husband is a very forgiving man, but even he has his limits. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yeah," he agreed. Elizabeth took a last look into his eyes, but it was near impossible to tell if he truly meant it.

* * *

The next morning, the bed in the guest room where Neal, after careful persuasion on Elizabeth's part, had slept was empty. The extra blanket was folded neatly at the foot of the bed, the pillows and covers arranged as if untouched. Neal's typical MO: Leave no trace.

Peter went downstairs, the dark green tie still hanging loosely around his neck. As he was tying it in front of the living room mirror, he heard Elizabeth coming down the stairs. "Neal's gone?" she asked.

"Looks like it."

"Do you know where he is?"

He turned around to look at her. "El, he's not a kid and I'm not his father."

She held up her hands in mock defense, giving him a poignant look.

He softened just a little. "I'm gonna check his GPS tracking data later. But I think we can both guess where he is."

"The hospital?"

"That's my best guess."

Something caught her eye on the dining table. She walked over and picked it up. It was an origami tulip, made from a piece of old newspaper. "What's this?"

Peter smiled a knowing smile. "It's the Caffrey way of saying thank you."

* * *

Neal had been at the hospital, that much was true. He was grateful that it was just barely within his radius. However, he didn't linger. There was no news to speak of. Mozzie was still unconscious, hooked up to a ventilator that was breathing for him. The doctors didn't want to commit to any prognoses. The message Neal took home was that it looked rather bleak, but there was still hope that it could turn out for the best.

They had let him into Mozzie's room for a few minutes. He stood by the bed without saying anything. What was there to say?

Leaving the sterile surroundings behind, he didn't want to dwell on any of it right now. There would be enough opportunity for that later, and he knew the black hole of what-ifs and worst case scenarios would find him eventually and suck him in, spiral him into the dark place.

There was only one thing he could think of that might make a difference. He needed to find out what Moz had deciphered. Where would he have hidden it?

He needed whatever Mozzie had with him when he had... when they had shot him. But his clothes and belongings were now sealed in an evidence bag at the NYPD crime lab, waiting to be processed. Neal wondered if there was a way of getting to them before the CSIs or FBI would.

* * *

In the White Collar field office, things felt much too ordinary. Time didn't stop and didn't care about personal crises. Peter was reminded of that when he walked in and up the stairs to his office. Neal was a no-show, but that didn't surprise Peter. It worried him, of course. The worry was accompanied by a nagging, uneasy feeling that he should not have let Neal roam free.

Diana and Clinton wanted to know about Mozzie. Diana even asked if Neal was okay. It made things easier, knowing that someone else cared. Hughes didn't really know the whole story, about the incident with Fowler, about the stolen music box. And Peter wanted to keep it that way—for now.

Peter sat down at his desk and opened the file lying in front of him. He studied the photocopied page at the top. The scribbled notes and music didn't make any more sense to him than the math formula at the bottom. Something equaled 0.70010. What could that number possibly mean?

Beneath the sheet with the cryptic clues was the profile of Julian Larssen. Served in the military most of his life. US Special Forces Security Specialist. Navy Seal. Got an honorable discharge after fifteen years of service. The file or anything else he'd been able to pull on Larssen didn't explain as to why.

It was as if Larssen had vanished off the face of the earth since he'd been released from the military. No credit card purchases, no car, phone or address registered in the system. The guy was an enigma.

Fowler hadn't been able to provide any more clues either. He was now in FBI custody. Someone higher up than one Agent Burke would decide his fate.

Peter tapped the printout of Larssen's picture. "Who are you?" he murmured to himself. Neither the picture nor anyone else was there to provide him with an answer.

* * *

Nothing. There was nothing. Neal went over Mozzie's belongings one more time, the formerly sealed plastic evidence bag carelessly tossed aside on the floor. He flinched every time he looked at the beige shirt with the bullet hole in it. Large crimson stains marked the flow patterns of Mozzie's blood. Point blank. They had shot his friend point blank, in plain sight. Only a very brazen or very desperate man would do such a thing.

Neal wondered if Peter had other evidence, other clues. Even though he knew it was wrong and went against everything that the man had ever done for him, he didn't want Peter involved. Whether it was to protect him or out of a misguided desire to keep Peter out of things that were personal to him, he couldn't tell.

But doing this on his own wasn't getting him anywhere. It pained him to admit it, but he'd need Peter's help on this. The conversation with Elizabeth from last night replayed in his head. This would be difficult. Every fiber of his being wanted to avoid an encounter with Peter because he knew that there'd be accusations and recriminations that he didn't have the strength to bear up against.

Peter would also learn soon enough of Neal's latest escapade at the crime lab. It would fuel his anger in ways Neal didn't want to imagine. Yes, of course he felt regret at breaking the half-hearted promise he'd given Elizabeth the night before. Neither she nor Peter deserved his betrayal, but this wasn't a question of deserts. Moz didn't deserve getting shot either. Some things just were more important than others.

* * *

"What do you mean, you can't find it?" Peter bellowed into the receiver. "Look again! And let me know the second you find it!"

He hung up, staring at the phone in frustration. How could they lose evidence that was attached to an attempted murder case? This was the kind of thing that, if it ended up in the media, would put law enforcement in a bad light. It was also the kind of thing that could decide whether they could prosecute Mozzie's assassin or not—provided they'd find him.

Then it dawned on him, and he chastised himself about not realizing it sooner. The evidence hadn't been lost, it had been taken. Three guesses by whom. Bringing up Neal's tracking data, sure enough, there it was.

He slammed his palm down on the table. "Goddammit, Neal!"

This put him into an impossible position. Again. Everything inside of him wanted to go and arrest him right there on the spot, putting him back in jail where he could not do more harm—to himself and the people around him. Where he might just learn a lesson. Still, there was something that stopped him, and he knew it wasn't common sense.

Calling Neal's cell, there was still only the voice mailbox. He'd heard the message one too many times today. "Neal, I'm not sure what you're up to, but you better stop it right now. To say you are in trouble doesn't quite cover it. You bring me the evidence you stole, or I swear to God, I am going to put you back behind bars!" He left it at that.

* * *

Latent anger was stirring in his gut as Peter raised his hand to knock on Neal's apartment door. There had been no callbacks from Neal, nor had he shown up at the Bureau. It was easy enough for Peter to figure out Neal was still at home. Unless he had tampered with his anklet again. After recent events, Peter wouldn't put it past him.

The knock reverberated in the hallway and Peter wasn't sure what to expect. Neal was unpredictable at the best of times. Paired with a wish for revenge not only for Kate's death but also for Mozzie's near-death made him a volatile hazard not only to himself.

He knocked again. "Neal, open up. We need to talk."

The expected smug smile greeted him on the young man's face when he did open the door. "I hate it when you say that, Peter."

"Neal, I'm serious."

The smile gave way to a more sincere expression. "What did I do now?"

The feigned ignorance drove Peter right up the wall. "You stole evidence from the crime lab."

"What evidence are we talking about?"

Peter raised his voice. "You know damn well what evidence I'm talking about! Have you listened to your voice messages at all?"

Neal walked to the table and picked up his cell. "Oops, look at that. Battery died."

"How convenient. Do you wanna know what you'll hear when you get to your voicemail? This is what you're gonna hear: I'm gonna throw your sorry ass back in prison if you don't get me that evidence back!"

"Relax, Peter, this is gonna give you a heart attack if you're not careful."

"Spare me the sarcasm! When is it gonna get into your skull that you can't keep bullshitting me whenever you want? I have tolerated your little games time and again, but I'm gonna draw a line this time."

"Fine. Now what? Are you gonna arrest me? Because if you don't, I have somewhere to be."

Neal turned towards the door.

"Sit. I'm not done. The Silver Burglar. Our FBI file. You set that up too, didn't you?"

"Maybe."

"Dammit, Neal, you just can't stop doing it, can you?" Drawing in a long breath, Peter tried to quell his rising anger. "Why does it always have to be two steps forward and one step back with you? Just when I think I can trust you, you pull another stupid stunt."

Neal shrugged noncommittally. "I guess it's just what I do."

"No," Peter turned around and pointed a finger at Neal. "No, this is _not_ what you do. Over the last year, I've seen you become more than that, better than that." He shook his head. "But this is... Whenever it comes to Kate and the boneheaded idea that vengeance is going to get you closure or satisfaction, or whatever it is that you're seeking, it's like the part of your brain that controls common sense goes completely blank. I can't keep doing this, Neal. I can't help you. Not if you shut me out."

The playful tone had all but vanished from Neal's voice. "I didn't shut you out."

"Oh no? And what was this? You know, at first I didn't want to tell you about Fowler and the explosives. But I took a leap of faith. And what did I get in return? You steal a gun and damn near shoot Fowler with it. You break into the crime lab to steal evidence. You forge an FBI file. You send Alex to steal the music box. From Diana. From a colleague you work with every day. What do you think that does to the idea of us having you as a member of our team?"

"Oh, come on, Peter, I was never a member of your team. I was the guy who tagged along whenever it was convenient for you. I was the guy who you used as a tool to up your recovery rate. I was the guy you called for help when you hit a roadblock. That's why it says 'Consultant' on my ID and not 'Agent'."

"I think you're conveniently forgetting the fact that you're a convicted felon with three more years to serve."

"Yeah," Neal retorted sarcastically. "Thanks for reminding me. Because this," he lifted his trouser leg to reveal the anklet, "doesn't really do the trick."

Peter took a step closer, looking down at Neal in the chair in front of him. "I want to trust you, I really do. But how can I when you keep going behind my back?"

Neal looked past Peter, at the book shelf on the opposite wall. He hated this. He was good at arguing, good at winning people over with a charming, innocent smile, but not when it came to Peter Burke. The man would get to him every time and just hit that sore spot with a poison tipped arrow.

Neal's voice was low and composed. "It's not like I haven't tried. But you keep shooting me down. Whenever I come to you with something that's important to me, you give me a slap on the wrist and send me away. What do you think that does to the idea of me wanting to confide in you?"

Peter met Neal's clear, blue eyes. "So instead you call on your go-to guy and go against everything I've ever taught you. Very smart thinking."

"Who died and made _you_ king?"

"Oh, come on, Neal! I work for the FBI. There is no way I can condone your little schemes and plots and con games. You know that!"

"Look at _you_. Peter Burke, upstanding citizen of high moral value. All hail the king."

Peter's stance straightened, his eyes dark. "I think this conversation is over."

He walked out the door without looking back. It fell into its lock with a soft click that betrayed the FBI agent's harsh final words.

Inside, Neal took the object closest to him—which turned out to be a glass bottle with Italian mineral water—and threw it against the nearest wall with as much force as he could muster. It shattered into pieces and the remains of the water spilled onto the floor in small, bubbly puddles.

It took him longer than expected to regret the impulse. And he found the notion frightening because he had never pictured himself as a person prone to impulsive acts of violence, even those aimed at inanimate objects.

* * *

In the car, Peter grabbed the steering wheel and tried to control his breathing. He hated himself for letting his anger get the better of him. When he had calmed down enough for his hands to stop shaking, he took out his phone.

"Jones? Send someone to pick up Caffrey. Or better even, do it yourself. I want him at the Bureau. You're not to let him out of your sight, do you understand?"


	2. Part 2 of 3

Peter swiveled his chair around to face his office window. The world outside was shrouded in gray, heavy rain drops beating against the window panes, driven diagonally across them by gusts of wind.

He left his office, his eyes searching for the one person he wanted to see least but needed to talk to most. He came up empty. Jones was hunched over his desk, scribbling down something on a piece of paper.

Peter walked down the stairs and to his colleague's desk. "Where's Caffrey?"

Clinton looked up, surprised. "He's right—"

"Here?" Peter finished for him.

"He was here a minute ago."

"Dammit, Jones, didn't I tell you not to let him out of your sight?"

Jones had already pulled up Neal's tracking data on his computer. What he saw made his forehead crease in a frown. "Says he's right here, in the building."

Peter stared at the screen, just as baffled.

"Want me to check out his place, see if he's there? Or the hospital?"

"No. I think I might know where he is."

"Want me to come with you?"

"No. I'm good."

The elevator only went up to the 24th floor. To get onto the roof, you had to walk the last flight of stairs. The wind almost ripped the door out of his hand when Peter opened it. His instincts had been right. He could make out Neal's silhouette, hunched over the edge of the roof.

Peter wrapped his arms around himself to prevent the wind from flapping his jacket open. His hair was wet within seconds from the steady, heavy rainfall. He walked up to where Neal was standing, stopping next to him, keeping enough of a distance not to intrude. "You're not thinking about jumping, are you?"

"Not my method of choice."

"It'd be definite, though."

"Maybe, but the last few seconds before the impact would be terrifying."

There was an awkward silence. Peter looked sideways, unable to tell if Neal's face was wet from tears or the rain—or both. Unsure how to start, he stumbled over the words. "Neal, look..."

Neal lifted his hands in a defensive gesture. His voice was as icy as the sharp wind that turned the corners of the angular rooftop structures. "Don't."

It stopped Peter cold, but only for a second. "You understand that you're putting me in an impossible position, don't you? Tell me, what am I supposed to do with you?"

Neal just shrugged and hunched his back. Peter suspected he was on the verge of breaking down. He had caught the young man at his most vulnerable. He decided not to nudge the tightrope of Neal's delicate balancing act.

Small steps. "You could start by telling me where the evidence bag is."

It took a few seconds for Neal to regain his composure. "In the space behind the panel at the top left of the fireplace."

It was a start. "What did you find?"

"Nothing. It was squeaky clean." Neal turned towards Peter, meeting his eyes. "Tell me you have something."

Peter hesitated. He had sworn he wouldn't tell Neal about Larssen. "We have something," he just said.

"Care to elaborate?"

"No. This is where it stops. This is all you need to know. You have lost the right to be a part of this investigation. You have lost the right to be a part of this team. You will not, under any circumstance, and I mean _any_ circumstance, do anything that has not been approved by me or Jones or Diana. Before you leave to go anywhere other than to the toilet, you will run it by me. If I catch you doing anything or going anywhere that has not been authorized, you are back in jail faster than you can say 'lawyer'. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," Neal said with a clarity to his voice that surprised even Peter.

"Good." A silent minute passed, and Peter shuddered. "Damn, it's cold out here. Come on."

* * *

Peter didn't pay any attention to the questioning gazes of his fellow agents as he ushered a dripping wet Neal through the office to the men's room. "Stay here."

A few minutes later he came back in with a towel and a pair of jeans, sneakers, a white t shirt and a dark blue hoodie that had the letters YALE sewn on the front. He handed them to Neal with the words, "This is the best I could find."

Neal looked at the clothes with a certain kind of disdain. He couldn't remember when he'd last worn a pair of blue jeans.

Peter could read it in the young man's face. He warningly lifted up his hands. "Don't say it. Be thankful for small favors, Caffrey."

Neal accepted the attire. "Thanks," he muttered.

Leaning against the sink, Peter had to hide a small grin that played at the corners of his mouth despite himself when Neal came out of the stall. The clothes fit well enough, and what he saw was almost like a younger version of himself during his college years. Well, maybe a little more attractive than the college version of himself.

"Don't you have work to do? Isn't there someone else who can babysit me?"

"No, what you need is a hot bath. Which is why I'm having Jones take you home."

"Peter," Neal protested, but to no avail.

Just as Neal was about to head for the door, Peter took him by the upper arm in a firm grip. "You need to understand that I mean what I said earlier. I will be checking your anklet. No stunts, no nothing. If you so much as move one inch outside of June's house without explicit permission, I am going to sic a patrol car on you. You will stay put and you will come to the office only when we need you to. You will not go to the hospital without my knowledge."

"Do not pass 'Go'. Do not collect $200."

Peter's gaze on Neal was stern. "Neal, this is not a joke."

Neal's expression turned serious, the twinkle gone from his eyes. His voice was sincere. "I know." He looked down at the tiled floor, and in a low voice added, "And I do appreciate that you're not putting me back in jail."

Peter's eyes narrowed, his mouth a thin line. "Don't thank me yet. This isn't over."

Neal swallowed but let it go. Even though he'd tried not to let it show, jail had been difficult. He'd mostly kept to himself, kept his head buried in the books. He'd gotten his GED, done his duties in the laundry room and stayed away from the bullies and illicit power games as best as he could. He realized once more how lucky he should consider himself for Peter putting up with him, offering him a life outside of concrete walls and iron bars when he didn't have to.

He felt the grip on his upper arm loosen. "Jones is waiting outside."

Neal just nodded and left the men's room.

* * *

Two quavers, the half rest, the semiquavers, the clef. It just didn't make sense. Neal had been staring at what was supposed to be Mozzie's Eureka for over an hour, trying to figure out what it was supposed to mean.

"Dammit, Mozzie, what are you trying to show me?" he muttered to himself. He desperately needed his friend to wake up, to tell him the secrets of the music box.

Frustration was grabbing a hold of him, not only at his ineptitude to decipher the code's meaning, but also at the unmistakable signs that standing out in the pouring rain yesterday had not been the best of ideas.

His head was pounding, his throat hurt with every swallow, and he was feeling chills wash over him. The breakfast June had brought up stood untouched on the table in front of him. The half full mug of tea in front of him had gone lukewarm, and his stomach turned at the idea of eating solid foods.

He fought with the decision of going back to bed or getting dressed. Lying in his bed wasn't getting him or Mozzie anywhere, so he stood up and went into the bathroom to find some Tylenol.

Before he could leave the house, he'd have to make a phone call and ask for permission. He did it without thinking twice, knowing full well that this time, he had stretched the limits. It was a conscious choice on Neal's part to call Jones instead of Peter.

* * *

This was progress. Neal noticed that the number of perfusors next to Mozzie's bed had gone down. Less painkillers? Less antibiotics? But that was the only visible change he could make out. The nurses couldn't tell him anything beyond that he was doing as well as expected.

He was smart enough not to actually go into Mozzie's room. A respiratory tract infection could wreak havoc on Moz's immune system, and Neal knew not to take that chance. He stood silent vigil outside the window that looked into the room, tuning out the noises around him.

There was an almost rhythmic quality to the up and down of the waves on Mozzie's heart monitor. Neal tried to replay the melody of the music box in his head, but only came up with nonsensical tones and notes. Snippets from a recent conversation with Mozzie played in his head.

_"Additive code, Morse, Bordeaux, set theory, logarithmic _and_ geographic—every kind of cipher. Unless, uhm, GLARVENDKKGLL means something to you, then it's still just noise."_

"Aren't you gonna go in?" a familiar voice behind him pulled him from his reverie.

He turned around. "Elizabeth," he softly greeted her. "Did Peter send you to check up on me?"

She came to stand next to him, choosing not to answer the question. "How's he doing?"

Neal shrugged. "You know. No change."

"And you?"

Neal wasn't surprised at the question. Elizabeth was probably the most caring person in his life right now. "I'm fine." It had become his litany, almost like an automated reaction to a question posed too often.

Of course she knew he was far from fine. She looked up at him, taking in the paleness of his face, his slightly glassy eyes. She gently took his hand, he needed the support. It felt dry and hot in hers.

Concern immediately edged a frown into her features. "Neal, honey." She felt his forehead. "Are you running a fever?"

"It's nothing. I'm fine, Elizabeth," he reiterated, and maybe it was wasn't so much a lie as more a vain attempt to convince himself and his uncooperative body of the same thing.

"You should be in bed."

He looked at her, suddenly feeling very weak and feeble. He had to fight hard not to give in to the impulse to lean against her for support.

As if she could read his mind, she gently wrapped her arm around him and guided him away. "Come on, let's take you home."

* * *

She took another look at Neal, now tucked in under the covers in his bed, already drifting off into an exhausted sleep. He'd protested multiple times that she didn't have to stay, but he hadn't been able to fool her with his perpetual 'I'm okay' reprise.

She felt a pang of sympathy as she watched him from across the room. He looked very innocent and child-like. It was hard to believe he could be capable of the willful deceit Peter and the FBI had been subjected to.

She felt very uncomfortable to be caught in the middle of this tug of war, especially since she had a certain understanding for both sides. Still, her loyalties lay with her husband, and she hoped that Peter would not be mad at her for trying to make this as easy for Neal as she could. With Mozzie put out of action, who did Neal have to turn to for help?

Her gaze wandered across the apartment. Neal was a nitpicker and very much a tidy person. She picked up the few stray items of clothing, putting them where she thought they belonged. She wasn't sure what he did with his suits. She'd have to ask June if she knew where he usually had them dry cleaned. An uncharacteristic pair of jeans and a hoodie had carelessly been dropped on the floor, and she briefly wondered where they had come from. She had never seen Neal anything other than impeccably clothed in suit and dress shirt, sometimes a turtleneck if he felt casual.

Over by the kitchenette sink she found a few dirty dishes, which she started washing, trying to make as little noise as possible.

She jumped when her phone went off in her purse.

"Hey Honey," she greeted her husband.

"El, where are you? Am I mixing up the dates? Weren't we supposed to have lunch together?"

She looked at her watch. "Oh shoot. I'm sorry. Time got away from me."

"Where are you? In the office? I can swing by."

"No, I'm at Neal's."

"Neal's?"

"Yeah. He's sick."

"Sick? What do you mean, sick?"

She smiled. Peter could be so adorably clueless sometimes. "You know, chills, fever, sore throat, headache. Also known as the common cold. You had it only last spring, remember?"

"How does Neal get sick?"

"Oh, come on, Honey. He's not superhuman."

"Is he going to live?"

"He's sleeping now. It'll be a few days before he's back on his feet. I'm just finishing up here. You want to meet at home?"

"Yeah. Twenty minutes?"

"Better make that half an hour. See you there."

* * *

Peter impatiently drummed his fingers on the mouse pad of his computer. Server trouble with the FBI database again? His query was taking ages to load.

Nothing had been forthcoming about Larssen since yesterday, and Hughes had dropped another high profile case in his lap that he couldn't put on the backburner. Resources in the White Collar division were thin, and with Neal incapacitated, they were also a man short. Or rather, a CI short. He hated to admit it, but their cases moved along a lot faster when Neal was helping them.

At least he was keeping his end of the bargain. So far he'd called in any trip he had made (Peter had checked), which meant there was hope for him yet. Sometimes all it took was a little rattle of the cage to bring someone to their senses. Only Neal's cage had been hit by something more like an earthquake-sized tremor.

Peter's cell phone rang, and he picked it up, even though the caller ID didn't look familiar.

"Agent Burke?" a female voice asked.

"Speaking."

"This is Kathleen Salinger, from Downtown Hospital. You said you wanted to be notified when Mr. Haversham regained consciousness."

"Yes, thank you. I'm on my way."

He hung up and put his finger to his pursed lips, contemplating whether to call Neal or not. They hadn't talked since yesterday, and if he was honest with himself, Peter didn't feel the urge to engage in any kind of conversation with him right now.

* * *

"Hello?"

Peter hardly recognized the groggy voice at the other end of the phone.

He didn't feel like bothering with pleasantries. "Get dressed. I will pick you up in half an hour."

"To go where?" Neal asked.

"Just be ready." Peter hung up after that.

Neal let his head sink back onto the pillow. A dull ache throbbed in his throat and behind his eyes and he closed them again. 'Just five more minutes,' he thought, trying to gather the strength to leave the warm comfort of his bed.

* * *

Standing in front of Neal's apartment, the rap on the door didn't elicit any response from its occupant. June's housekeeper had let him in. Most of June's staff knew who he was by now.

He knocked again, but there was no answer. He considered his next move for a second, and then turned the doorknob. It was open.

He closed the door behind him, surveying the scene. He could make out Neal's form underneath the covers in his bed, and suddenly he felt like an intruder. He considered leaving again, or maybe just going outside again to hammer on the door until he woke up, but then thought the better of either idea.

Directing his gaze at the antique oak bed, there still was no response, no stir. Unexpected worry scraped at Peter's innards, which prompted him to take a hesitant few steps closer. There was a distinct possibility Neal had taken a turn for the worse and needed professional medical assistance.

Just then, the young man stirred just slightly, shifting to another position. Peter held his breath, unsure how to react. He started to reach out his hand to shake Neal's shoulder, but stopped just shy of touching him. Neal's chest rose and fell with even breaths, and the resentment in Peter's gut gave way to something more akin to fatherly concern.

"Neal?" he asked. "Neal?" he tried again a little louder.

Neal opened his eyes, bewildered and disoriented for a second. "Peter?" he said in a croaky voice.

"Yeah. In the flesh. Elizabeth was right, you _are_ pretty out of it. Didn't think I'd see the day."

"Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated," Neal quipped with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Get dressed. Mozzie's starting to regain consciousness."

Neal was on his feet in two seconds. Unfortunately, his brain and blood pressure weren't keeping up with the rest of his body, so he momentarily swayed and had to grab a hold of the bed's headrest.

"Whoa, easy there." Peter was by his side in one stride.

Neal held up a hand to stop him.

Peter could feel another one of the countless attestations of 'fine' coming. With a weary eye, he stood back, trying to fill the space with something meaningful to say for the long few seconds until Neal had steadied himself.

Before he could jerk out something that would undoubtedly sound awkward, Neal asked, "Did you see him?"

"Yes. Just before I got here."

"How is he doing?"

"Okay, under the circumstances. They've taken him off the ventilator. They didn't let me into his room."

Neal started rummaging through his wardrobe, then made his way towards the bathroom.

Peter watched him carefully. "You know, suddenly I'm not sure anymore if it's such a good idea to take you to the hospital. You can barely walk straight."

Neal turned to face him, looked him square in the eyes. "You'd want to be there if it was your friend."

Peter narrowed his eyes for a moment, then softened. As much as he deserved to be punished for screwing up, it was apparent to Peter that he couldn't be cruel enough to keep Neal away from one of the few true friends that he had in his life.

* * *

Neal was sweating even before he entered Mozzie's room. He wasn't sure if it was from his overactive immune system, the heavy, impermeable hospital gown they had been told to put on, or both. Apparently, there was a case of MRSA going around in the ICU, and everyone was asked to take precautions to prevent further spreading.

Neal felt a drop of sweat trickling down his spine. He tried to adjust the surgical mask, noticing out of the corner of his eyes that Peter looked just as uncomfortable. Still, this was probably for the better, seeing how the cold still had Neal tight in its grasp.

It wasn't lost on Neal that Peter was trying to stay close. Peter was many things, but he clearly wasn't stupid. He knew full well that Mozzie and Neal had their own secrets, their own theories, their own world of intellectual hiding places and conman mutuality. And he wasn't about to let Neal get a foot in the door that led to Mozzie's almost-assassin.

Entering Mozzie's room, Neal felt his confidence crumbling. This frightened him, confidence was his middle name, it was ingrained in his very being. He was out of his element here—in every way imaginable. He swallowed and stepped closer to the bed, unsure what to expect.

Mozzie was awake, though his eyelids were drooping a little. Recognition flickered across his friend's face when Neal came into view. His voice was croaky, almost chipper. "So nice of you to come."

Neal couldn't hide a smile. "Of course, Moz. The only reward of virtue is virtue; the only way to have a friend is to be one."

"Emerson," Mozzie replied feebly.

"I see you haven't lost your touch."

Moz turned his head slightly to look at Peter. "You brought the Suit."

Peter quipped, "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer."

It took Mozzie some effort to try to sound buoyant, and he didn't quite succeed. "Sun Tzu, though the origin is still in dispute."

There was a brief silence. Neal's gaze wandered across the bed to Peter, his eyes quietly begging to have a moment alone with Moz, but Peter didn't acquiesce. They both knew there was no sense in beating around the bush.

Peter made the first move. "Mozzie, do you remember who shot you?"

"I was shot?"

Peter's eyes widened. Memory loss?

But then Mozzie continued. "Of course I was shot. In the park. I was holding a cup of peppermint tea. Two sugars. No pain. Very strange sensation."

Peter fumbled awkwardly with the light green surgical garb, producing a photo from underneath it. "Is this the guy?"

Mozzie squinted his eyes. "Glasses," he said to Neal, who found them on the bedside table and gingerly put them on Mozzie's face.

He studied the photo, the effort straining him visibly. "My recall of recent events is somewhat hazy."

Peter sighed but tried not to show it. He'd hoped that Mozzie would be able to give them their next clue. Any clue.

Neal's eyes were intent on his friend. "And the music box code?"

"Point seven zero zero one zero."

"What does that mean?"

Moz frowned. "I don't know. It just popped into my head."

"It's the number that was on the note in the antique shop. It doesn't mean anything to you?"

Mozzie closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them again with visible effort. His voice was beginning to slur slightly. "I'm afraid not."

"Dammit," Neal hissed. This startled Peter, Neal usually wasn't one to give in to mundane utterings such as swearing.

The look on Mozzie's face was somewhat apologetic, and Neal quickly touched his arm. "It's okay, Moz."

Peter looked at Mozzie who looked like he was drifting off to sleep, then at Neal. "We should let him get some rest."

Neal just nodded but didn't move. He looked like he was still hoping for a chance to have a private moment with his friend.

"Neal. Let's go," Peter urged a little more forcefully.

In the ICU's waiting room, they both discarded the scrubs into a laundry bag. The beads of sweat on Neal's forehead weren't lost on Peter, but he chose to ignore them. Neal faced him, asking without preamble, "That man in the photo, who is he?"

"That is confidential information that doesn't concern you."

"Doesn't concern me? Peter, he shot my best friend!"

"We don't know that."

"You wouldn't have asked Mozzie if you didn't have a strong suspicion."

Peter took a step closer, the bitterness in his voice barely contained. "Let me remind you of our current arrangement. You are not a part of this investigation. Before we let you in again, I need to know that you are going to play by the rules, and right now I don't have that assurance. Seriously, I don't know what you were thinking when you stormed off, gun in hand, to face Fowler. Oh, wait. That's it," he pointed a finger at Neal, "you weren't thinking at all."

Neal wanted to shoot back a defensive response, but he bit his tongue. In a way, Peter was right. He hadn't been thinking.

Peter's eyes were still on Neal, sizing him up. In a more composed voice, he asked, "Let me ask you something. If you were faced with the same situation right now, would you do it again?"

Neal hesitated. "I don't know," he finally offered.

"Well, at least you're being honest."

"So what happens now?"

"Now you go back to your apartment and work on recovering from this cold you're schlepping around."

"Can I visit Moz again?"

"After you call in."

"Fine."

* * *

Neal was slowly going crazy. He wasn't made for solitude. He thrived on social interactions, on beguiling people, on flashing smiles and getting what he wanted. The confines of his apartment, while comfortable and familiar, just weren't enough to keep him sane.

He'd tried the television, but nothing could hold his interest for more than fifteen minutes. He'd tried reading, but ended up re-reading the same page over and over until he realized it was no use. He'd checked every single game on his cell phone (there were only three), and he'd played through all the levels they offered. He'd stood on the balcony, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to protect himself from the cold autumn air, and stared out at the cityscape below, but the streets in this neighborhood didn't provide much distraction either.

The only conversation he'd had all day was a quick but meaningless chat with Mihaela, June's housekeeper who had come to clean his apartment. Mihaela was very attractive (in an Eastern European kind of way), was from Romania, and barely spoke English. He had managed to find out that she was from Constanţa, one of the few Romanian holiday resorts by the Black Sea. He'd never been there, but had a pretty good mental picture from a trip to Bucharest when he was 22.

It didn't help that his nose was running nonstop now, sneezing attacks racking his body from time to time. He'd forgotten just how debilitating it was to be slave to your own physical weaknesses. At least the fever had waned and his appetite was slowly returning. The cold medication he assumed June had dropped off while he was taking a nap was doing its bidding.

Now sitting at his dining table, he idly played with one of the tangerines that Mihaela had left there in the fruit bowl. She had pointed at the citrus fruit, then at him, "You must eat. Is good for you."

Was this going to be his punishment? A life in isolation with nothing to keep his mind sharp and focused, nothing to distract him? He kept thinking it was barely better than prison, but quickly buried this thought. That wasn't fair to Peter, he'd tried hard not to lock Neal up again, and Neal acknowledged that.

He got up and stood by the window that overlooked the balcony. The two winged statues glowed orange in the setting sun, and he could almost feel the sun's warmth on his skin. On his back. Like the warmth—no, the searing heat of the explosion.

He hadn't thought about that moment in a long time, but it brought with it a whole menagerie of other unpleasant visitors. Where had it all gone wrong? That day Kate came to visit him in prison, telling him that she would leave him? Everything surrounding her since then had quite literally blown up in his face, and now it had all but taken down Neal's world and the people around him.

Mozzie seemed to be on the road to recovery, but how could he ever make it up to him? How on earth was this ever going to be all right again? And Peter? The man had kept him going for the past year. His work with the FBI had brought some semblance of meaning to his life. Neal clenched his fist until his knuckles were white and the fingernails unpleasantly dug into his palms. Had all of this been worth it?

He knew the answer to that question. No. Or rather, what? Had what been worth it? What if he'd killed Fowler? He still wouldn't have killed Kate's murderer.

He felt another sneeze tickling its way up his nose, and he could do nothing but succumb to the barrage of sneezing fits that followed. Five, six times. He had to hold on to the window frame, and it left him drained and depleted. The tears in his eyes weren't only from the physical strain on his respiratory system. He bit his lip and cursed the universe.

And there was only one word—a word he rarely used—that he found solace in speaking it out loud.

"Fuck."


	3. Part 3 of 3

Peter couldn't sleep. His brain was on overdrive, and no counting of imaginary sheep was going to shut it down any time soon.

Elizabeth stirred next to him, propping her head up on one elbow. "Honey, this tossing and turning needs to stop if you want me to catch any sleep tonight."

"Sorry," he muttered. "I can move to the guest room if you want."

"No, I want you to catch some sleep too. What is it that's got you all worked up?"

"It's nothing."

She studied him in the half-light. "It's Neal, isn't it?"

"Am I that predictable?"

She smiled and nodded. "So what is it? Mozzie seems to be doing a lot better. Is Neal still having a hard time? He hasn't been around lately."

"Yeah, and there's a good reason for that."

"What do you mean?"

"I told you about the evidence he stole from the crime lab, right?"

She nodded again.

"Well, what I didn't tell you is that Neal has sort of been confined to June's house ever since."

"House arrest?"

Peter breathed out a long sigh. "Yeah. El, I just didn't know what to do with him. He keeps breaking the law whenever he thinks it'll benefit him. Is it too naïve of me to think that maybe some day he'll learn something from all this?"

"Honey, you've always been an idealist. But Neal is not a lost cause. I think deep down you know that. It's why you keep trying. Besides, have you ever considered his side in all of this?"

"I'm not sure he deserves to _have_ a side in this."

There was a certain edge of exasperation to Elizabeth's voice. "Come on, you know it's not that black and white. Maybe you need to get off that law-abiding high horse of yours for a moment. Think about it, put yourself in his shoes. If someone had killed me in cold blood, couldn't you at least entertain the notion that you may want revenge? And if someone had tried to assassinate your best friend, wouldn't you want to find out who did it?"

Peter just grunted, silence stretching on. Elizabeth knew he was contemplating the idea. After half a minute, he said, "Okay, let's just say there's a part of me that gets all of that. I'm still not sure it justifies what Neal did."

"You know what? I think you _do_ know that it justifies what he did, you just can't condone it. And that's the problem. Your concepts of right and wrong aren't the same."

Peter's voice was now raised. "The law has no right and wrong, El. It's the law. One size fits all."

"Yeah, but sometimes it leaves wiggle room if you remove some of the excess lining."

"Oh, Neal's had plenty of wiggle room. Wiggle room is what made me not put him back in prison after he threatened Fowler with a gun. Wiggle room is what made me confine him to his house instead of booting him back to Supermax."

"And yet, you're lying in your bed at 1 AM, losing sleep over it."

"Yeah, why is that?" he asked, annoyed at himself.

"Because maybe you consider him a friend and part of you thinks you've been too harsh on him."

"I don't know. Have I?"

"Is that Agent Burke or Peter Burke asking?"

"It's a little hard to separate them right now."

"Then ask yourself this: After you confined him to June's house, did he violate that agreement? Did he do anything to make you suspicious?"

"Oh, I'm sure he and Mozzie are conspiring and plotting behind my back when I'm not looking." He sighed. "Which is to be expected. To answer your question, no. He's not violated that agreement. In fact, he's been very compliant with the whole thing. He's called in every single time he went to see Moz. As far as I can tell, he's not been anywhere other than his apartment and the hospital."

"And what does that tell you?"

"You think I should loosen the leash, cut him some slack?"

"Sometimes all it takes is a leap of faith."

Peter sighed again. It's not like he hadn't tried that before. And been disappointed before. Still, at least it seemed that recent events had rattled Neal's cage enough to smack some sense into him. Peter made his decision.

"All right. I'll have him come into the office tomorrow. Maybe it's time to give him his 2-mile radius back."

A smile spread over Elizabeth's face. "That sounds really good."

Peter lifted his head off the pillow and leaned over to plant a soft kiss on Elizabeth's lips.

She raised her eyebrows. "What was that for?"

"For putting up with my tossing and turning."

"In that case, you're welcome. Can we go to sleep now?"

He turned over to lie on his side. "Yes, I think we can go to sleep now."

"Good," she mumbled, already halfway there.

* * *

Peter tried to look for the usual Caffrey swagger as Neal walked through the bullpen and straight up to Peter's office. It was there, only just barely, if you knew where to look.

The truth was, he didn't know what to expect from Neal. They were still walking a tightrope, but the net underneath was being reinforced little by little.

The door to Peter's office opened and Neal walked in. Peter squinted his eyes for a brief second, trying to figure out if the serenity on his face was another carefully crafted Caffrey mask. He couldn't tell.

Neal smiled at him. "You called. Here I am."

"Take a seat," Peter gestured to the chair opposite him. He handed him a printout. "Do you know what this is?"

Neal studied it, catching on quickly. "Looks like my GPS tracking data overlaid on a map."

"And what does it tell you?"

"That I've pretty much not been anywhere other than June's house and the hospital? Though this," he pointed at a dot a block from June's house, "was me getting groceries."

"Which you cleared with Diana first."

"Yes, I did." He looked at Peter inquisitively. "What, are you disappointed that I didn't break our agreement?"

That prompted Peter to look at him. "What? No." Peter pointed at the map again, his finger tracing a circle that was marked on the printout. "You also know what this is?"

"My 2-mile radius."

"Yes, and you can have it back." He met Neal's eyes again. "Provided you don't do anything stupid."

There was guarded skepticism in Neal's eyes. "Really?"

Peter nodded in confirmation. "Really."

Neal still frowned, but he was willing to take the offer at face value. "I... well... Thank you."

Peter smiled encouragingly—and maybe there was even a tiny bit of self-satisfaction in there—before his expression grew more stern, a clear warning in his voice. "But, Neal, there will be no clandestine plans with Mozzie. Or anyone else, for that matter. You know that I'm going to monitor your anklet data. No more dubious activity like, say, breaking into crime labs. No looking for Mozzie's shooter either."

"Come on, Peter, what am I gonna do? Mozzie's confined to a hospital bed. The evidence from the shooting was completely useless and you won't share your intel with me. I got nothin'."

"Neal, I know you. And I need to know that you're not—" Dammit. He'd held that speech too many times. There was no way Neal would _not_ look into events, but he hoped he'd stay within the confines of the law this time. Or at least within the gray areas, though Peter surely didn't like the gray areas. Still, with Neal Caffrey, you had to learn to appreciate them if you didn't want to constantly arrest the man.

He pointed a finger at Neal. "You know what? The next time, just think before you act. Consider all the options. And if there's ever—and I mean _ever_—an inkling of doubt in your mind, you call me, okay?"

Neal raised an eyebrow. "I _do_ think, you know? It's been known to happen."

"A little too much sometimes."

There was a brief moment of silence. Peter thought this had gone well.

"Is there anything else?" Neal asked.

Peter felt a pang of guilt at not sharing with Neal what they'd found out about Larssen, but Peter wasn't ready to go there. "Nope. You're free to go."

"Okay then." Neal got up from the chair. "I'm going to the hospital."

"Neal, you don't need to report to me any longer."

He smiled. "I know."

Peter mentally added, _I'm telling you anyway, so you know I appreciate the confidence you're placing in me. _He sincerely hoped that Neal would not disappoint him.

* * *

Neal did, in fact, not disappoint him—at least not over the next few days (and maybe he should add, at least not that he could tell). Of course Peter checked the tracking anklet data, and unless Neal had tampered with it, there had been no irregularities. Neal was being a good sport. And Peter didn't know if it was a good sign or just the calm before the storm.

The beeping of his Blackberry indicated that someone was calling him. Peter wasn't usually much of a gadget person, but he sure loved the Taurus's hands-free capabilities. He saw Diana's name on the display, and hit a button on the steering wheel to answer the call.

"Diana?"_ Please don't tell me Neal's in trouble._

"Hi Peter, can you talk?"

"Yes, I'm actually on my way to the office."

"Good, because I have something to show you."

"Should I be intrigued?"

There was a short pause. "I think 'intrigued' might not be the right word. There's been a blip on the radar about Larssen, but it's not exactly what we've been hoping for. I'll need you to take a look at it back in the office."

"All right, I'll be there in fifteen."

Entering the White Collar Crime Unit twelve minutes later, he gave Diana a pointed look as he passed her desk. She waited a few minutes before she walked into his office with a light blue folder in her hand.

Sitting down on the chair opposite Peter's desk, she handed him the file. Peter opened it, his brow creasing as he read the document on top.

"An autopsy report? Are you kidding me? How can Larssen be dead? Looks a little too convenient to me."

She met his eyes. "I checked. It's him."

"Yeah, it's his face on the photo. I can see that too."

"No, I mean, I went there to check."

"You went to the morgue?"

"I did."

Peter was impressed. "And you looked at the body?"

"Yes. It was him. Unless he had an identical twin or they had someone surgically altered to look like him."

"Was there any evidence?"

"They found nothing but the clothes he had on him. No ID, nada."

The frustration in Peter's voice was clearly audible. "Damn. Another dead end."

Diana shrugged helplessly. "Looks like it."

* * *

The knock on the Burke's door wasn't entirely unexpected. Neal had called earlier and announced a visit, if that was all right. Peter went to open the door, not in the least surprised to see the (hopefully) reformed ex-con standing in front of it, clad in a stylish, black jacket and a pair of rather casual slacks. Well, casual by Neal's standards.

"Come on in," Peter said and stepped aside.

Neal smiled a complacent smile and gracefully took off his jacket, draping it neatly over the armrest of one of the chairs at the dining table.

El emerged from the kitchen, her face lightening up considerably upon seeing Neal.

She went over to him, drawing him into a hug without waiting to see if he would actually welcome it. "Neal, so happy to see you."

If he was uncomfortable with the physical contact, he didn't show it. Classic Caffrey practice. Another inscrutable mask—possibly. His smile was genuine when she let him go. "Elizabeth, happy to see you too."

And he meant that, because it sure was great to be able to go places without asking permission first.

"How's the cold? You still sound a little stuffy."

He waved it off. "Water under the bridge at this point."

"I'm glad to hear it. Have you eaten? I think we may have some leftover stir-fry."

"No, I'm good. Thanks."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, June already catered for me. Her Romanian housekeeper makes the most amazing pork chops."

Elizabeth smiled. "Now you're making me jealous."

He grinned one of the Caffrey 1000-Watt grins. "I'll save you some next time."

She pointed a playful finger at him. "You know what? I'll hold you to that. So, to what do we owe this pleasure? And please don't tell me it's work."

"Actually..." Neal trailed off.

"Okay," she gave her husband a pointed look. "Then I'll leave you two boys to it."

Both Peter and Neal sat down at the dining table. Peter looked at Neal, definitely curious now. "So, what's this about?"

Neal lowered his voice. "You know how you said there was going to be no looking into Mozzie's shooter?"

Peter's voice had a warning undertone. "Neal?"

Neal looked defensive. "I mean, Mozzie practically forced me into it. How could I say no to a man clearly in pain, bound to a hospital bed?"

Peter tried to look threatening, but didn't quite succeed. He'd known all along that he wouldn't be able to prevent Mozzie and Neal from running their own little investigation, short of putting Neal under constant surveillance or back in prison. He just hoped he'd made it clear that he couldn't protect either of them any longer if something went awry.

"Why am I not surprised," Peter said.

"As you already know, the evidence from the shooting didn't reveal anything. But we did manage to connect a name and a face to the shooting." Neal pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table in front of Peter. The face looked maybe ten years younger than what Peter had recently seen, but he immediately recognized it.

Neal went on, "His name is Julian Larssen. He's ex-military, was discharged in—" He stopped at the look on Peter's face. "You already know this."

"Yeah. His name popped up a while ago."

Neal was silent for a moment, no doubt disappointed and upset that Peter had kept this from him. "Our trail ended pretty much after he left the military. Do you have anything more?"

"No, same thing. Honorable discharge and then nothing. Well, until this afternoon."

"You know where he is?"

Peter hesitated a moment. "Yes, but you're not going to like it. He's at the New York City Morgue. Point blank shot to the head."

"Are you serious?"

"Very."

"Are you sure it's him?"

"Yes. Diana personally checked. Larssen's a dead end. No evidence discovered with the body either. These people are good."

Neal put his palms together and rubbed his index fingers along his lips. "That's too bad."

"Yeah," Peter nodded. "Has Mozzie remembered anything more about the music box code? Anything at all?"

Neal shook his head. "Nothing beyond what's on the note we have. They say post-traumatic amnesia isn't all that unusual. His memory might come back eventually."

"So we're back to square one?"

"Unless you have something else...?"

"No, Larssen was our best lead. Our only one, I should say."

"Then we need to go back to the music box code."

"Or wait for Mozzie's memories to resurface. But, Neal, I don't want you to do anything that's potentially dangerous. You've seen what these men can do. And I have a feeling this is not over. You hear me?"

"I hear you, Peter," Neal said, his voice indicating that it was indeed registering.

"Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

Neal frowned. "Beyond sleeping in and visiting Mozzie, no."

"I think you might have to readjust your schedule. We just got a new case today, and Hughes thinks it'd be a good idea to get you involved."

"You mean, you convinced Hughes that it'd be a good idea to get me involved."

"Do you want it or not?"

There was a glimmer of an eager spark in Neal's eyes that Peter was glad to see it returning. "Does it involve mortgage fraud? Because then the answer is going to be no."

"It doesn't involve mortgage fraud, so I'll take that as a yes."

"So what's the scoop? Care to share details?"

"I think that can wait until tomorrow. 8 AM in the office for the debrief. Don't be late."

"Want me to bring coffee?"

"Low-fat latte, no sugar."

Neal beamed at Peter. "You got it."

* * *

The light in the club's back room was dim, the constant throbbing of the bassline the only sound filtering through the closed door. Two men were sitting opposite each other, one dressed completely in a flashy suit, the choice of clothes reminiscent of that of mob bosses in bad 80's movies. The other man looked as if he'd just stumbled in from a frat house party.

"Did you acquire the object?" the first man asked.

"Yes," the second man answered, holding out Mozzie's notebook.

The first man took it, pocketing it without closer scrutiny. "And the target?"

"Has been eliminated."

"Good. Now find the man who knows the code and finish the job that Larssen couldn't."

The second man nodded, the hilt of the gun in his holster gleaming in the overhead light as he left the room.

* * *

_... to be continued ...  
along these lines or differently (think: differently)  
on USA Network  
Tuesday, January 18, 2011  
at 10/9C_


End file.
